


Microfiche Moments

by WillowMadison



Category: Original Work
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Married Couple, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24255622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowMadison/pseuds/WillowMadison
Summary: Within an abusive relationship, all it takes is one moment to change everything, from bad to worse.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Microfiche Moments

Something you don't know about me: I make quick decisions. Even really big ones. I imagine it as if my mind sorts through the details and angles of a choice with the speed of one of those old microfiche machines. Do you know the ones I mean, with the knob crank? That's exactly how it felt on the night I chose to end it.

The microfiche started rolling at a New Year's Eve party in a big hotel. Drinks were involved, but no drunkenness. The mood of the night took a distinct downturn from noise-makers and music when a couple caught his eye. I remember nothing of them, except they were nice, shiny. Like all the others -- not to my liking. That night, he flirted with innuendo and clumsy over-enthusiasm. To be fair, his usual choice for this sort of forced affair was to arrange a date via online chat rooms or messaging, so this impromptu face-to-face was distinctly outside his comfy zone and it showed. I don't think the couple quite got the lewdness he implied, but that could be the years blurring my memories as a kindness to me. Or perhaps it was my show of indifference to them? Regardless, the result was the same -- a parting of ways with nothing more passing between us four than general politeness and good cheer. I was relieved. He was pissed. At me, of course. 

With the countdown to the promise of a new year, I implored him toward the outdoor terrace to better see the fireworks. It was my blatant attempt to distract (distractions, cherished weapons of the abused). He insisted on heading to the ballroom for the balloon drop, in the direction the couple had gone. He wasn’t a quitter, that one. 

This was my microfiche moment. 

Planting my heels firmly into the busy pattern of the hotel carpet, I said a _no_ of some sort. The usual explosion to any show of defiance on my part was expected, but it came in a most unusual way -- his hand, my pain...but in public. _In public_. 

The few shocked faces around us looked as if their individual microfiche had just scratched to a halt. The freeze to the moment didn't last long, however, but long enough for his arm raised for a second strike to appear ridiculous and his grip on my wrist to be easily slipped. My legs did their own microfiche-ing, sprinting away in too-high heels and tight ass black dress that was more postage stamp than coverage. 

Down a hall and out a door marked EXIT, the blare of an alarm sounded dwarfed in comparison to the jovial crowd counting to ONE and the BOOM of gorgeously crackling fireworks going off overhead. As I found myself outside the back of the hotel, the insanely intense assault of ice that serves as air blasted me on that Chicago winter's midnight. Alone, I shook and shivered and teeth-chattered my way around to the only door that would open, finally. The microfiche never paused, spurred on by the raw energy of the biting cold and the dark future that awaited. 

A mob of people headed toward the front lobby to retrieve coats from the checkroom and to continue on their way to celebrations elsewhere. Numbly, I moved along with them. White-knuckled, I held my tiny clutch, a lifesaver with our coat slip within being one of a few items to call mine in that moment, but no cash or cards on me. I was freezing; one problem at a time. 

Yet with this, the microfiche failed. If I hadn't gone back for my coat? I’ll never know….

He was waiting, of course. I let him lead our dance as I always had, an oddly familiar comfort in what was suddenly different. No words spoken, his hand touched in that vague directing traffic sort of way, with no hint at the _what comes next_. It was a purely terrifying pause in the chaos; even my microfiche faltered in the dank confines of the cab’s backseat.

Why I went remains a mystery. Sometimes, I like to tease myself with excuses: he was calmed down; I could have contained the violence as I had so many times before; what took place _in public_ didn't have to mean anything would change or worsen; and, a personal favorite, I would be okay because what real choice did I have (lies, more cherished weapons).

Back at our home, my steps inside were few before the _what comes next_ was made clear. He picked me up by my arms and tossed me deeper into the living room. Except the way into that room wasn't clear. This was a soft loft, architecturally confined by interior concrete pillars which stood proud and strong in the strangest of placements, like within a few feet of an apartment entry door in order to pose as a barrier to the rest of the space. My arm scraped that pillar as I sailed past it, landing in a jaw jarring thump on the carpet only to slide several feet more before coming to a final rug burnt stop. 

Broken and bloodied, disoriented, the microfiche was still intact. The look in his eyes? It wasn't calculating. That was sobering, indeed. He hadn't missed the pillar on purpose, in the usual grand scheme of reminding me how his pulled punches could be so much worse. With that eye-opening realization, one question raced across all the other speedily sliding by pages in my microfiche brain: _what are you waiting for_? 

Like wounded prey, I stayed down, watching for him to move away from the door, just far enough. Then, I bolted. I was lucky or he was slow. I got away, that night. Afterwards, I’m not ashamed to admit that for a short while into the new year, I played his game of sorry-honeymoon, the elusive timeframe in which all was forgiven if only I confessed to some of it being my fault and he agreed he could have handled things better. The details melted as did the snow outside, but my mind stayed in a flurry like the well shaken snowglobe I was. 

And the microfiche rolled on...

If he had thrown me an inch to the right? If I had been standing a little further into the apartment? If my head had hit that pillar instead of my arm? If if if…

An inch away from death, the microfiche only has one question: _what are you waiting for_? There really is only one answer. Run.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please leave a comment. Critical or complimentary - feedback is always appreciated.


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